


The Crescent Moon Reflected In A Teacup

by AlmesivaMoonshadow



Category: Far Cry, Far Cry 4
Genre: 60's Hong Kong, Accidental Marriage, Accidental Relationship, Angst, Angst and Feels, Britannophobia, Chauvinism, Classical References, Crimes & Criminals, Domestic, Domestic Disputes, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Forced Marriage, Jane Eyre - Freeform, Mixed Race Marriage, Mobsters, Mobwives, Organized Crime, Original Characters - Freeform, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Prequelverse, Pride and Prejudice References, Racism, References to Canon, References to Jane Austen, Secret Organizations, Subjects of Ethnicity, The Question of Identity, Traditions, Triads, Triads And Tongs, Yellow Peril, british literature, chinese mafia - Freeform, semi-canon characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 08:43:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15793044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmesivaMoonshadow/pseuds/AlmesivaMoonshadow
Summary: About Pagan's Min's parents, matches not most favorable, a Hong Kong long since forgotten, family secrets, sleeping with guns underneath the pillows, things written in the stars and sizzling hot tea cups above a city of three million souls.





	The Crescent Moon Reflected In A Teacup

**Hong Kong ( 香港), China, 1966**

 

* * *

 

 

 

Gang Min.  
The Golden Triangle.  
Two terms that universally evoked prestige and fear.  
A sort of silent reference in the upper echelons of the ruling class.  
In this metropolitan sprawling mega-city of finely tailored coats, tight silky dresses and hair-pin roses.  
Sky-high, tall beehives to match the sky-high, tall skyscrapers, colorful fans and painted, stylish umbrellas.  
He was the talk of the town - in every glossy office, every board-room meeting, every seedy cafe.  
In every blaring, closed-off, private neon-strip club - every perfumed opium joint.  
A businessman, an individual of wealth and tradition, but first and foremost;

 

 

 

A criminal.  
And she was marrying the man.

 

 

 

Noella-May Yao - a woman they'd call a bleach-bottle blonde egg - white on the outside, yellow on the inside - a British citizen of partial mixed mainland Chinese background living in this loud, confusing, immense whirlwind of buildings, smog and sparkling lights wasn't sure how all this happened, but she was certain every would-be heroine of every would-be novel in trouble must've felt like that at least once, recalling how it happened so terribly fast her mind couldn't entirely process everything going on around her - one moment, she was the English tutoring, foreign import governess of one of the many children, cousins, offsprings and young family members of the affulent Min family, who while partially wishing to be at least somewhat fluent in such a globally-spanning, affluent tongue just for the sake of it if not for a more practical reason, yet still found it beneath themselves to hire an actual white Brit to the job only to have her be planning her matrimony to their patriarch the next. She felt like she was caught in a Jane Eyre-type of predicament. Gang Min was a sour, serious, rigid man. Frightening in his overall aura. Stern, with a perfect posture, perfect articulation, perfect manners, a perfect attire in dignified somber colors. He always wore shades and undertones of grey and black. She's never seen him in anything else. The two colors that marked the entire stay in his household, if symbolism was of any value. Grey and Black. She almost felt unwelcome. Neither an outsider, neither an insider. Caught between two worlds and accepted by neither. Not entirely She was still too British and white-washed to be one of the collective and still too Chinese and different to be anything but a minority. And then, one evening, private and not all that unpleasant, he's asked her into his office with the airs of negotiations and issued an order to join him in matrimony. Issued an order, yes. Felt like he's made his decision and she had no choice but to go along with it. Did she mind, though? She couldn't decide. But the answer was caught somewhere between yes and no, just like her entire existence.

 

 

 

Out of the blue, unexpected.  
Scandalous by all accounts - shocking.  
Almost as natural as breathing air or walking.  
What sort of man proposes to a British governess?  
What sort of man breaks rule like that, in a shameless fashion?  
No less a man of such impeccable, pristine reputation?  
And honestly gets away with it - no less?  
Gang Min very much did, apparently.  
Noella figured they were so very afraid of him.  
That they were afraid of his marriage and even herself as a result.  
Some gleeful, wicked little part of her was almost - just barely almost pleased with that.  
The Daoshi finished his chants, said his prayers, their vows were made they were united in eternity.  
And that was the end of it - traditional, customary, private, without much pomp or festivity.  
Just the way Gang Min liked it - and practically overnight, without warning -  
She was the wife of one the most infamous Triad bosses of Hong Kong.  
Never once even giving a hint like he enjoyed her presence.  
Just springing it upon her and taking her as his.

 

 

 

It just wasn't in his _modus operandi_ to reveal his emotions like that - he believed it vulgar and unbecoming.  
A sign of inexperience, youthful pretensions and deeply-sated insecurity which he was above and beyond.  
To him, love was extremely private - like having dinner, taking a bath or clipping one's nails.  
Just because you can possibly flaunt to the world something doesn't mean you should.  
It's only considered being cultured, practicing boundaries and having good manners.  
Although, Noella, sometimes, couldn't help but have her own set of questions.

 

 

 

_-"Why did you marry me? Of all people?"-_

 

 

Yes, that was one of them - and sure, her overall closeted confusion was often left void and unsatisfied mainly because Min couldn't ever, in all his long years presiding over this city, imagine his personal decisions being questioned so openly, so brazenly, so outrageously in his own house or his taste disputed by anyone, even the one those tastes were primarily practiced upon - it's apparently not how he was raised and build up to be - his personality was pretty much set in stone and he probably wouldn't have changed in this life or any other - Hong Kong was allowed to whisper, gossip and speculate all it wanted for as long as it wanted. It was only human nature. A pastime of sorts. As easy as checkers or smoking a pipe. But, Hong Kong was never allowed to intervene. If Hong Kong did intervene, there would be blood and there would be death and there would be retribution on a scale she shuddered to even picture. To Gang Min, life was cheap, and he could buy it, sell it and discard in ways that would only be expected of someone so dreary, gloomy and outright cold. She knew that. She understood that. This city was one of the four Asian tigers alongside Taiwan, Singapore and South Korea - but Gang was still a dragon in his own right. And Dragon's not easily crossed.

 

 

_-"What's the reason? Is it because it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife? Is that the reason? Or, what?"-_

 

 

Noella added with purposeful passive-aggression when she was met with more lack of consideration and ignoring, accidentally slipping in a quote from Pride and Prejudice, sipping her tea from a porcelain, painted, floral, soft pink cup expectantly, part of her feeling like the only reason he might've made this pact it's because it was expected of him, especially of a man in his position, so he merely wanted to get the deed done and over it - might as well do it with an outsider you can easily discard and discipline of they ever step out of line. Taking the daughter of one of the other clans and chastising her if she misbehaves, proves unworthy or inadequate would've resulted in an all-out war on the streets. But, who would miss a lone, mixed-breed Governess that disappears off the charts, somewhere - in a strange place, in a strange town, under strange circumstances, caught in the loop with a very strange man who anyone would have enough common brains to avoid and never, ever cross? In a sense, it was a move worthy of a strategic genius. In another, it was rather worrying. She should've known better then this. She was, by any benefit of the doubt, a well-read, educated young woman - and she should've threaded lightly. Books don't save you from bullets.

 

 

_-"I'm not a fan of British classical literature. You know that."-_

 

 

Gang quipped back calmly in Cantonese as opposed to her English, fixing his immaculate, grey cashmere raised collar in the reflection of a colossal ornamental, golden mirror imported somewhere from Singapore, seemingly disinterested and unimpressed with her reference, with his back turned to her, refusing to indulge or even engage her in her own language of choice like it was something entirely beneath his level  - almost like an insult or an indignity - the arrogance. The snobbery! Gang believed English was the language of hairy, lice-infected barbarians who were still rolling around in their own muck and filth back when the the many kingdoms of this land were already one of the most advanced and noble civilizations on earth, with all their poetry, war-tactics, aesthetics, artwork, science and inventions. To him, her language was merely a necessary evil in today's political climate - something he had to speak for the sake of business, negotiations and commonplace diplomacy but something he didn't enjoy speaking and very defiantly wouldn't if he had his own way, hoping Hong Kong would push out the British governing one day and return to it's old ways.

 

 

Did that mean pushing out ever aspect of British influences out - did it also mean pushing her out?

 

 

_-"Yet, you're a fan of a classical British wife?"-_

 

 

She snapped cordially, not un-politely, but certainly not without fervor either.  
Yes, she was a fan of the Beatles, she fancied a bit of the Bronte Sisters.  
She was a non-ironic lover of rainy and misty signature Albion whether.  
She didn't care if fish and chips were considered unrefined food.  
She proffered her afternoon tea with the Eccles cakes from Manchester.  
She was proud of her huge, ridiculous blonde beehive and magenta pink dresses.  
She spoke with a chippy, posh accent and she thought Agatha Christie was a damn riot.  
And if she could was feeling particularly bold she would've styled her appearance after Vivien Leigh.

 

 

So, sue her for it - if he didn't like that he shouldn't have wasted her time in the first place!  
Bits and pieces of her were stereotypical as all bloody hell but she wasn't about to change herself.  
She never asked Gang to change either - just to communicate his intentions more readily.  
Then again, maybe that was asking too much flexibility out of him in the first place.

 

 

_-"People aren't tacky, outdated romance novels describing the shallow exploits of a collective of goldigging, airheaded, dim-witted bachlerottes from the late 1700's who's only goal in life is to land a financially well-endowed spouse, Noella. Austen is an affront to my tastes."-_

 

 

He turned towards her mid-grooming and spoke with a clean-cut, rigid sort of honesty.  
His chiseled baldness only adding to the grave, all-important sharpness of his features.  
He was bald all his life and he didn't mind in the least bit - he thought hair only got in the way.  
Impractical - and thus, highly unnecessary - Gang didn't keep around anything he didn't explicitly need.  
So in a sense, he was a far simpler person then he initial seemed to be at first glance.  
Even the literature he read - unless it actually taught him something new and useful -  
He believed that it was wasting his time and thus testing his patience.  
Same with Austen novels - he already knew people were idiotic.  
He didn't need to read an entire book to discover that.  
Three hundred pages too many for nothing at all.

 

 

_-"Then why?"-_

 

 

She pressed on with almost dire, exceeding need, standing up and pouring herself another cup of steaming hot Jasmine tea in order to keep herself occupied and prevent herself from going mad with anticipation, staring at his back, desperately - hoping, deep down, in some silly, whimsical, pathetically stupid part of her that he would break and say _"Because I love you most ardently, Miss May. You have bewitched me mind, body and soul. I love you. I love you. I love you. And wish from this day forth never to be parted from you."_ the way Darcy did to Elizabeth Bennet in some god-awful, cheesy romance or some Technicolor screenplay adaptation with certain artistic liberties taken from the original she would've called her favorite in spite of being ridiculed for it almost constantly and set as an example of bad, sub-par writing as opposed some obscure, mangled old Ming Dynasty poet from the third century or other. Not everyone could have the sublimely lofty, pedigreed and refined tastes of her dear husband and some people - certain peasant mongrels just had to make-do apparently. Yes, she was being sarcastic. At her own expense. To her own damn self. In her own mind.

 

 

_-"Best not said."-_

 

 

He answered quietly, with rare, almost unimaginable sentiment, and even rarer, this time in broken, heavily-accented English - something he never did, in almost in occasion - cut off mid way when she walked out to the balcony to get some fresh and just have a goddamn purifying sight from all this back and forth and mind-games. Honestly, what did she expect from a man who spent his entire life in a state of self-discipline and restriction and holding back. Wasn't his fault. He was a product of generational conditioning, upbringing, education, expectations and tradition. To ask anything else of him would be - well, rude and inconsiderate. Cruel, almost. Stupid. If she wanted butterflies in her belly like some sort of giddy child, she should've married someone else entirely - some nice young boy who would bring her flowers, hold her hand and call her pink, many-layered skirts cute. You can't change a man's nature. You can only hope to compromise, mind a common tongue and hope for the best.

 

 

_-"You should've chosen a real, true Chinese bride! Someone your family could feel proud of! Approve of! Petite and dark haired and without the embarrassing clothes, outlandish world-views and horrendous hair-do or -"-_

 

 

She added bitterly - scornfully, interrupting herself before she could go overboard and insult the Emperor of all Emperors when she felt him walk up behind her with languid, self-assured steps - even now, taking his own time at leisure, never in a hurry, never rash or brash - pouring down a taste of searing liquid down her throat quicker then she should've given the sheer heat of the drink in her already brunt, shaking hands, wanting to go aflame up from the inside, shrivel up like a bouquet of dry, rotten wild-flowers in the sun and just die already looking out towards the midnight, neon panorama of this city and Kowloon itself from their separate, dusky, nebulous island that's given her so much bullshit. She was never out here to wed anyone or advance herself. She was here to make an honest living, not get into any major trouble, not step on any toes help her family back home and mind her own damn business. That was the jest of it. But that motherfucker called the Red Thread of Fate sure played a nasty one on here, didn't it?

 

 

_-"You are Chinese."-_

 

 

He reminded, matter-of-factually - no comfort or empathy in that voice - just reinforcing something already pretty bloody obvious with or without him vocalizing it like he was some sort of authority on the issue of deciding who's ethnically clean and who isn't. She knew she was Chinese. Of course she knew! She knew she was British too. She also knew she didn't have to choose between one or the other to be any more legitimate or comfortable in her own origins and ethnicity then she already was. She wasn't the one having an identity crisis. She wasn't about to take sides. But, he sure as hell seemed like he wanted her to. Maybe he should've married someone different as well. You can't just build yourself a perfect wife out of an already existing, established person and hope to cut away and change each and every aspect of her that suits your agenda until you come up with something you can bare to tolerate. Take it all or leave it all. She was all pink, blonde, lace and he didn't like that, well - that was very unfortunate.

 

 

_-"Not in every sense of the way, apparently. Otherwise we wouldn't even be having this debate."-_

 

 

She fired back - feeling the ache deep in her belly, searing in the form of fiery hot, over-sweetened, scented Jasmine which she decided there and then she didn't quite like anymore - so, why was she drinking it?

 

 

_-"What is Chinese in every sense of the way?"-_

 

 

He coaxed carefully with an input, in a slow sort of English, coming off as borderline philosophical.  
Sounding curious, eager almost as to what she'll describe to him right there and then on the spot.  
Pulling out a cigar and lighting it, looking out into the distance, veiled with white smoke.  
A strong nose-profile enveloped by the blurry, sizzling bright lights of old Hong Kong.  
A pale crescent moon peeking out from behind the clouded, dark firmament high above.  
It's distorted shadow briefly reflected in the deep golden brown overtones of her tea.  
The buzzing echo of nearly ten million people beneath them filling her ears.  
She was faced with a riddle as unpredictable as a double-edged blade.  
But, Noella-May Yao had her answer standing right in front of her.

 

 

_-"You."-_

 

 

She managed without zero prohibitions or holding back this time around, and it never felt there was more accurate of an utterance as it did then - he seemed pleased - of course he did - she just indirectly imparted the greatest compliment, praise and flattery a man like him would ever even consider receiving in the first place without feeling short-changed, insulted or somehow grossly misinterpreted. There's probably no other complement he possibly wanted more in the first place. Gang was fiercely, awesomely, shamelessly proud of who and what he was and Noella was convinced that if he was, by some otherworldly force beyond human comprehension, given the chance to be born as something else, in a different place, in a different time, with a different destiny and set of duties in place he would still choose to be born as Gang Min of the Golden Triangle Triads and he wouldn't have felt that it wasn't a life worth living twice. There was something - well, oddly admirable about that. He was a dinosaur. And he enjoyed being a dinosaur. With no change or evolution in sight. Steadfast and firm and very much a fossil compromised of old beliefs systems and even older philosophies. Sure in the order of things. The way they were put there for a reason.

 

 

_-"If everything about me is truly, genuinely Chinese and you are mine - all mine - then you too, are Chinese in every sense of the way."-_

 

 

 

Then he spoke, finally, in a hushed, quiet, warm tone, taking the burning teacup out of her hands and settling it aside without pulling his gaze off of her - her fingers now safely in his, his eyes reflecting the purples, blues, yellows and pinks of the buzzing, midnight metropolis below fixated to one spot, he brought his lips close to her hand and pressed an earnest, lingering kiss to the surface of her skin cooled down by the night air on the balcony of the Min residence penthouse, paying homage to her hand, ever the gentleman - still not the brazen, disheveled type to claim her lips where someone could spot them by accident or even kiss her on the cheek - but, not a gesture without meaning when he called her "his" - a sense of belonging in that title - a sense of home - calm and peace - especially when Hong Kong turned out to be rainy that season - just the way Noella preferred it back home - Gang Min didn't transform and she didn't expect him to - there was still the issue of rule and tradition and respect and blood.

 

 

 

That year, at the height of his power.  
Noella stayed with child, in a blessed state - eager and prepared.  
The name was already picked out, Gang Min Junior - the obvious - a proud resemblance.  
He only arrived after the birth was done, several days too late, from a meeting of chairmen.  
Vaguely appreciative that his firstborn was a son just like it was quite favorable and expected.  
Not something to be celebrated, but merely something that simply the way it should've been either ways.  
She found herself sleeping with a gun under her pillow, despite being surrounded by an army of guards and servants.  
Word spread of shoot-outs around the city, staged car-crashes, ambushes, killings - a war of clans was imminent.  
The birth of the patriarch of the Golden Triangle's only heir was reason enough for unrest.  
She wasn't even surprised at this point - wasn't even shaken in any sense of the way.  
It was just something that was - slowly adopting Gang's mentality in stride.  
And only when she was out drinking her tea on the balcony.  
Hoping to catch a reflection of moonlight in her tea.  
Her babe napping in her own free arm.

 

 

 

Noella realized - she was no British classical Austen heroine - no English rose.  
She was a mob-wife through and through.  
Cradling one of the future godfathers of Hong Kong to sleep.

 

 


End file.
